John Landless and I were married yesterday. We have found a
pleasant place to live, with Farquharson, my old nurse. I hope you
will try to think of me as kindly as you can, and kindly, too, of
John, whose heart is pure gold, and all mine, as mine is his. I
want you to know I am sorry, even when I am happiest,--and, indeed,
Uncle Peter, I am happy,--sorry for the pain my thoughtlessness
gave you? sorry for the mischief that was done, unconsciously,
because I did not tell you, long ago, that I was learning to love
him. It would have been far, far better to have told you? I am
truly, truly sorry. Some day, when you want me to, I hope to tell
you all this much better than I can write it.
I have a favor to ask of you, Uncle Peter. I want my valentines.
Could Burbage put them all in the leather cases, and send them, by
Thompson, to Saint Ruth's? And, please, I ask you to send nothing
else? just the valentines, please, Uncle Peter.
Always lovingly,
PHYLLIS.
On the following afternoon, John went to Saint Ruth's to tell the news,
and announce his unavoidable absence from the Settlement for the month
to be devoted to his book.
"And to you," he said, as he kissed Phyllis good-bye.
"Tell Mrs. Thorpe we shall both be back in a month, eager to do more
than ever," was her reply to this. "Tell her, please, not to think we
are selfish; but the little book is so important just now."
Phyllis listened, smilingly, to Mrs. Farquharson's gossip about her
lodgers.
"'Never again,' he says to me solemnly, and pointing at me with his long
finger. 'The keys I shall leave in the cases as I ever have, but never
again touch dust-cloth to my fans and patch-boxes!' And never have I
since that day, which is seven years if it's a minute. He dusts them
himself of a Sunday morning. I've caught him at it!" Mrs. Farquharson
picked a thread from her skirt, and carefully wound it around her
finger.
"Speaking of catching him at it reminds me of that Mrs. Burbage," she
continued. She never referred to her save as "that" Mrs. Burbage; the
designation expressed anathema. "I have wondered, did ever it occur to
you whether Sir Peter asked that Mrs. Burbage to take the advertisements
to the papers; it being my belief that if he ever did she never did. And
consequently, however could I see them, and know my deary dear wanted
her old nurse?"
The whir of a motor, immediately below the windows, caused Mrs.
Farquharson to look out.
"Whoever is that now? A man in leggings and a middle-aged woman in
spectacles. I never set eyes on her before. He's beginning to take the
little leather trunks out. Whatever is--"
Phyllis's intuition was swift as light. A glimpse from another window,
and--
"It is Uncle Peter's car, Farquharson," she exclaimed. "The boxes are
the old Valentines you remember so well--that I sent for yesterday. The
woman is----"
"That Mrs. Burbage, of course. She found me quick enough when she wanted
to!"
Phyllis was in flight down the stairs. Mrs. Farquharson smoothed her
hair, and followed majestically. They met in the hall. While Thompson
carried the boxes up, Phyllis introduced the rivals. They talked for a
few moments constrainedly, surveying each other as though watchful for
an opening. When the last of the cases had gone up Phyllis said:--
"I want to hear news of my uncle, and show Burbage our pretty rooms. You
will excuse us, Farquharson, won't you?"
"Certainly, my dear," she replied; then, addressing Mrs. Burbage--"Shall
I light the gas for you, ma'am? I see your age is beginning to tell on
your eyes."
"Oh, no, thank you, ma'am," replied Burbage. "I can see perfectly.
Though your hall _is_ uncommonly dark."
Both shots told. Phyllis hurried Burbage upstairs.
There was little to learn. Sir Peter had not spoken her name since she
had left. He had given her note to Burbage.
"Carry out these directions implicitly," he had said. But Burbage
allowed herself latitude; the directory gave Mrs. Farquharson's
address--and here, rather than to Saint Ruth's she had brought the
valentines--eager to see her darling,--now a bride.
Phyllis chatted happily with her for an hour. She spoke affectionately
of her uncle. "It will all come out right in the end," she concluded.
Burbage promised to come often to see her.
"My pretty," she whispered, as she held Phyllis's hand, in parting, "I
warn you of this Mrs. Farquharson. A woman with eyes like hers is not to
be trusted."
The framed valentines were hung when John came home. Thus they were the
first of their Lares and Penates; the first of the pretty things that
made a home of lodgings.
"Ah, John, you have no idea how I love my old valentines," said Phyllis
that evening, as they looked around the rooms. "I love them dearly for
themselves--as well as for their association with my mother. Aren't they
sweet and pretty?"
"Indeed, they are," said John warmly. "Don't they light up the rooms,
though?"
And so, with John's books and furniture, and Phyllis's valentines, the
rooms were transformed. "I wouldn't know them myself" was Mrs.
Farquharson's oft-repeated comment.
* * * * *
Of course you have read "Old Valentines, and Other Poems," by John
Landless; that is the disadvantage under which this story labors. You
know, beforehand, that the little book won instant hearing; you know
that "Lyrics" quickly followed, and the favorable verdict of the critics
whose good opinion was most worth having. When that wonderful
epic--"London: A Poem"--made its appearance, our poet was fairly on the
royal road.
But you must pretend you don't know all this; and that "Lyrics" and
"London" are not, at this moment, in plain sight on your reading-table.
You must forget that you saw John's portrait in the last "Bookman."
Unless you are good at make-believe, it is no fun at all. You must know
nothing of the rosy glow on the peaks of Parnassus, so that you may
struggle with John and Phyllis up the first, heart-breaking, storm-swept
steeps.
We are back in their pretty rooms now. Are you there? Very well, then;
we proceed.
They had lived at Mrs. Farquharson's for a fortnight. John worked
steadily at his desk; Phyllis sewed. Poetry reads very smoothly on a
printed page; but Phyllis had not realized that ten satisfying lines is
a fair morning's stint; nor that a little book of synonyms is first aid
in emergency cases; nor that one may talk as much as one pleases at
times, but must be quiet as a mouse when the pen is scratching away so
busily; she had to learn that when John's eyes were full of anguish he
was probably at his best.
"Phyllis," said John, one morning, looking up from his writing.
"Yes, dear."
"That's all--just Phyllis," he replied, smiling.
She beamed at him over her embroidery. The pen resumed its slow
progress. Phyllis rocked happily. When the pen paused again, she watched
his face. It welcomed speech, so--
"What word from the publishers?" asked Phyllis.
"They will have none of it," replied John. "They all tell me the verses
have merit; they all regret the public taste; but--in short, business is
business."